


Some Folks are Bucky Barnes, Some are Not

by sailtheplains



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Memory Alteration, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 08:25:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3562901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailtheplains/pseuds/sailtheplains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a short piece about Bucky's struggle with memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Folks are Bucky Barnes, Some are Not

It was their policy to keep him well-hydrated. The IV was a constant pinprick in his arm. It itched sometimes. He had this yearning to just tear it out because sometimes they didn’t change it regularly enough and skin would start to heal around the puncture. This was usually during Learning Modules. They’d wake him up and before he’d recovered from the hibernation sickness, he’d have a needle in his arm and he’d be strapped to a chair to see what he’d missed since he’d gone under. This is how he learned about politics, current events, they’d test his language retention, they’d show him SHIELD targets. 

Ingrain everything, destroy the self, keep him hydrated. His metabolism was always sluggish when he first woke up—but they’d use shock therapy to keep his muscle from breaking down and fed him via the IV. Liquid nutrients. Taste, smell—it could reboot memory. Smell was especially sensitive. They tried only once to give him real food—the first time they’d woken him up from a sleep. They’d given him meat—chicken—and some vegetables. Broccoli, with butter. The smell made him nauseated at first but then something had surfaced beneath it. Something swimming his way, trying to make itself clear in his mind’s eye. Sitting in a bar next to a big, blond man. Somewhere. Somewhere. Someone giving them plates of food—simple, hearty, chicken and broccoli. With a cold beer and glass of water. The broccoli had cracked pepper and a little bit of cheese. He felt something grateful for it. Someone had gone out of their way to give them that food. Someone had put in some extra effort, got a little bit of cheese that remained in a mostly empty larder—in thanks because he and Steve had saved….saved….he and Steve. Steve? Who was Steve? Steve—of course, Stevie. How could he forget that—

_Where am I...?_

He clumsily had picked up his fork, stabbed the chicken and brought it to his mouth. It was steaming. Plain, white chicken breast. The scent filtered into his nose, infiltrated his brain, brought something back. Something of a thin little thing, a young man—perhaps—but small. Lying on a cot, flushed with fever, eyes cloudy. A woman hovered over him, cracking the beads of her rosary and gently rocking back and forth.

And there he was! There he was…giving her something? Something…some chicken. Her blue eyes searched his—conflicted. She was a Catholic. Didn’t like theft but they had no food and Steve was…

Steve? Was it a different Steve? Or….no, that wasn’t right either. 

_Where am I?! Wake up!_

It was like slogging through mud. Through quicksand. Every thought was an effort. 

The scientists were observing him, noticing his hesitation and how he was just being still, just taking in the scent. 

“Sergeant Barnes,” one of them said.

 _Sergeant Barnes_ , he thought. _Is that who I am? Barnes. Sergeant. Am I in the Army? Barnes._

No, that wasn’t quite right either.

“His heartrate is increasing.”

“He seems to be remembering something.”

_Bucky! Bucky, NO!_

He shoved the tray away. The fork—chicken still attached—flew across the room. “Steve!” He said aloud, stumbling up, clumsy, muscles thick as they tried to remember walking. “Steve?!” 

 

After that, no more food. IV tubes, sterile needles. He didn’t exactly feel hungry anymore when he awoke. He always felt nauseated—though it was such a constant that he no longer could tell the difference. He ignored it. He had the mission. There was always the Mission. Alexander Pierce—who was the Leader and to be Obeyed, was always reminding him of the Mission. His face had changed over the years. He had been other people. Others had Corrected him and he’d Obeyed. But he could no longer recall who they were or who they’d been. 

“You want some milk?”

What an odd question. He did not respond. He could tell from the tone, no response was expected. If he had, it would have shown some Thought—and then another trip back to the Chair. Though in some separate part of himself, he did consider the question. Milk—white liquid, builds strong bones. Chocolate milk, ice cream, cheese ( _and broccoli_ ), came from cows, goats, mammals, women ( _women_ ), he considered briefly. Milk. Babies took nutrients from it when nursed from the mother. Or a mother, it didn’t necessarily have to be their own mother. Some babies were taken away, given to wet nurses, other women to nurse so that the mother could go do something else. The baby was a thing, an inconvenience. A blip in what it meant to the mother-child relationship. Some mothers loved their children, some mothers did not. Some fathers loved their children, others did not. 

Some people drank milk. Some did not.

Kill the Captain. Some people killed the Captain. Others did not. He had to find the Captain, the Black Widow, the Falcon. The Captain was the priority. 

_Bucky._

Who was Bucky? Who the hell was Bucky? Some people were Bucky, others were not. 

Was _he_ Bucky? 

The name touched something in him. The mask had come off in his fight with the Captain. The barrel-chested juggernaut of a man, huge and strong and fast. And yet, strangely familiar. There was none of the grace, finesse or style he’d seen in all the video of this man. He’d seen a lot of video of Captain America. But he fought here….fought differently. Something rougher, something grittier. 

_C’mon, Steve—ball up your fist—yeah, like that._

_Bucky, you’re taking it too easy._

_No, I ain’t! The hell would you know about easy?_

_Stop making me wanna hit you for real. Come on, Bucky._

Like a brawl in an alley. Like a backstreet bruiser. 

Bucky. 

Bucky.

Who the hell is Bucky?

No one had ever called him Bucky before. 

….had they?

A flicker of uncertainty. _Had_ they? He didn’t actually know, really. His eyes went to the side and then shoved it away, raised the gun and fire—

Someone was Bucky, someone was not.

Back in the Chair. The Chair. Remembering the blond man, the blond juggernaut. The man—Captain America. Bucky. There was an IV in his arm. It itched.

Someone was speaking. The Leader was speaking. Saying something. It was all muddled in his ears. It was a jumble and a fog. And then the Leader hit him. As strikes went, it was weak—

_A quiet snarl, the brute was sinking his fist into the blond’s stomach--_

He stayed still. “I knew him.”

“No. You don’t.”

Some people knew him. Others didn’t.

“Wipe him and start over.”

His stomach went cold. Always cold. Terror.

When he awoke again, he was back. Back in front of the blond man on an air ship. A flying machine. A marvel of technological achievement. 

“Bucky,” said the juggernaut, “please, don’t make me do this.”

A shake in his voice, a timbre of despair. 

_Bucky. I’ve known you your whole life._

Something made him pull when he fired. Pull and miss the juggernaut. Something in him—he recognized it. Muscle memory. Something was there. Something….something…

“With you til the end of the line.”

_Til the end of the line._

_The line._

And then he fell. The man who would not kill him. Who just saved his life. Who said things the Winter Soldier could not understand. But someone else, someone deeper. Someone…

He dove over after him. The strange man, the slip of a blond boy. The two images melding together, earnest blue eyes and blond, sandy hair. He stared at the man when he pulled him to shore. He could not understand. Bucky.

_Who was Bucky?_


End file.
